If I should go
by CailenBraern
Summary: All Sam wants to do is his job, and whatever it takes to make his master happy. But sooner-or-later, his hard work will take it's toll. Second Chapter up
1. Prologue

"There's been talk of storms and floods sweeping through the Shire."  
  
Over the noise of rowdy hobbits singing and shouting over their mugs of ale, Daddy Twofoot was relating to Hamfast Gamgee and his son, Samwise news that he had heard from others in the Green Dragon.  
  
"Well that's all stickleback I say!" Hamfast Gamgee retorted, taking a puff of his pipe. "There's nay been weather like that in the Shire since my old man was young Samwise's age!" At the mention of his name, Sam's head lifted and he listened with interest to the elder hobbits.  
  
"Now Ham, just because naught's happened before don't mean to say naught will ever happen. Best to be prepared I say." Dad chewed thoughtfully on the end of his pipe.  
  
"There'll be no preparing for no such thing! I've been working outdoors longer than I can remember, and if bad weather was rearing its ugly head then I reckon I'd spot it a league away, or my names not Hamfast Gamgee!" Sam chuckled quietly at this, as Daddy looked indignant. "Mark my words Dad, come rain or high sunshine, or storms for that matter, there'll always be a Gamgee hard at work outside in the gardens. That's the way we're raised, ain't that right son?"  
  
"That's right sir!" Sam replied with a grin and raised his mug. "Cheers Gaffer!" 


	2. Azure lips

The soft, pleasant notes of the hummingbird's song outside his window brought the dozing Hobbit to open his eyes. Very much as it had done every other morning before, except on this day the room seemed unusually dark.  
  
Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he swung his legs round so that his feet touched the wooden floor, and pushed himself up from his bed. It was so strangely dark, and yet the hummingbird had never failed him before. He ambled over to the little round window at the far side of the room and drew the pale linen curtains aside.  
  
It was morn; that much was clear, but the skies were overcast with thick, dark clouds.  
  
"Another days' diggin' in the creek," Samwise intoned one of the phrases from his gaffer softly under his breath, heading for the washroom to clean up before getting dressed.  
  
The bolt on the door was closed, which meant he was too late. He groaned and rapped on the door.  
  
"Hurry yourself, Hamson! There's a whole smial a-waiting to follow you."  
  
He heard muffled mutterings and movements inside and within a minute the door opened, and Hamson bustled past him.  
  
"Good morn to you too, brother." Samwise yelled after him as his brother sped down the hall to the kitchen.  
  
When he had cleaned up and dressed, he made his way down to the Kitchen where his mother and father sat at the table, Hamson had already gone to Uncle Andy, as part of his training to be a roper. Upon seeing her youngest son, Bell stood up and bustled around the kitchen to fetch his breakfast and Hamfast bid his son to take a seat.  
  
"You've got a busy day ahead of you I reckon," the Gaffer predicted. "That rain looks like it ought to fall soon and you've."  
  
"Got to see fit that everything that needs to be done is done" Sam finished, having heard his father's talks before.  
  
"Leave the lad alone, Halfast, he knows what he's doing." Bell scolded her husband.  
  
"Course he does, learnt it all from me, didn't he?" Halfast retorted with a chuckle as Bell placed Sam's breakfast in front of him. "Now get that down you quick, son, and fly quicker than the clouds."  
  
*  
  
Sam did indeed have a lot to do. There were a might of weeds freshly growing in the vegetable patch, and Sam had to see to them before his master had no taters or mushrooms for his meals.  
  
Then there was the matter of fixing the squeak in the gate, before the hinge gets too wet by the rain to oil.  
  
He'd have to split a few more logs for the fire inside the hill, before the firewood got damp.  
  
His list was endless, and the sky, if possible had darkened. Still he resolved to do the firewood first, as that would be needed most if the clouds did decide to open. So rubbing his hands together from the chill in the air he made his way to the toolhouse 'round the back of the hill, and grabbed his hatchet.  
  
He then made his way to the woodpile, and set to work.  
  
He had been chopping for less than an hour, and a short bit over a dozen logs were split, when the first few drops of rain began to fall. He wiped the sweat from his brow and set the axe on the stump so that he could carry the firewood inside before it got wet. He managed it in three trips and retrieved his axe to return to the toolhouse, and he lingered there in the shelter, wondering what to do next. There was that squeak in the gate, but that could rightly wait. There'd be no use oiling it, only for it to rust in the downpour. No that could wait, but as for those weeds. He didn't much like putting that off if he had to, not if it meant they could get tangled up with the roots of the flowers and plants, and threaten their growth. So he grabbed his tools and buttoned up his jacket right up, and then made his way out to the beds.  
  
With every weed he pulled out, the rain fell heavier and faster, and the skies darker. But he had barely finished one of the beds, and there were four others to do.  
  
"Hoi Sam!" Sam turned his head to the window, where Frodo was hanging out of the window, blinking at the falling rain. "What in all the Shire are you doing here. This is no weather to be gardening in. Now be off with you, before you catch a chill."  
  
"Now Mr. Frodo, don't you be worrying about me." Sam called back, wiping the rain from his forehead, and picked at his soaked clothes. "I've fared worse before than this, and I'll be fooled if I'll let a spot of rain stop me from doing my duties sir."  
  
Frodo remained at the window, watching Sam with something unrecognizable present in his eyes, Sam thought. He had told a little fib, he'd never kept working through rain this hard, but he didn't want to shirk his responsibilities no-how, rain or no.  
  
Eventually his master disappeared into the smial and closed the window, and Sam turned his back and continued his weeding. With a couple of hours, as he had just started on the third bed, the sky had darkened to an extent that he could hardly see his hands in front of him. 'This won't do,' he thought to himself. 'If I can't see what's weed and what's not, I'll take out 'alf the garden!' He gathered up his tools and went back to the toolhouse.  
  
It wasn't until he had stepped into the little wooden shack that he realized how cold and soaked through. He dropped the tools, and they landed with a crash to the floor. He wrapped his arms around his body and shivered, although he offered himself no warmth.  
  
"I reckon Mr. Frodo was right," he said, his teeth chattering against each other so hard that he feared they might shatter. "But the Gaffer told me to make sure the job's done before walking out t'gate." So Sam bent down to pick up his tools, but his hands were too numb for anything. "Well that's that then, Sam Gamgee, off you trot home, so you're not a burden on your master.  
  
He took a deep breath and went back out into the downpour. He bade his legs to take him to the gate and home, and they obeyed, reluctantly. But before he could reach the gate, he heard his master call once more.  
  
"Sam! You can't walk home in this rain! Stay here, won't you? There's plenty of room since Bilbo left, and I'd feel better knowing you were safe and warm."  
  
Sam looked at the doorway, for that was where his master was standing, and smiled softly. "That's right kind of you sir, but the Gaffer's expecting me home, he needs help what with his joints an'all." Frodo nodded, but he was far from happy. "I'll see you in the morn, Mr. Frodo." And with that, Sam ducked his head, and walked out of the garden, and down Bagshot row to number 3.  
  
*  
  
For two more days Sam went to work in the garden at Bag End, each day coming home worse than he left. He was sneezing a lot, and his throat felt tight, but he assured everyone that it was only a cold, and it was to be expected from working in the weather. Truth be told he did feel a little tired, but he put that down to his working so hard, and nothing more.  
  
Yesterday he had trouble around the garden, although he made sure Frodo didn't see that. He found it harder to do things than normal, like someone was holding onto his arms and stopping him from working. The muscles cramped, and were a darnsight painful. He just hoped Mr. Frodo hadn't noticed him slipping home earlier, walking slowly, and urging his legs to carry him.  
  
As he left number 3, Bagshot row, he raised his hands up to his lips, tinged with blue. Lately it felt like he had a fever, with his head feeling so hot, he could hardly breathe; yet everything else was as cold as ice.  
  
He breathed on his hands as he walked along, trying to regain feeling in them, it worked temporarily, but he knew he would have to repeat it before he got to the gate of Bag End, otherwise the feeling would be lost.  
  
The rain was a light shower now as he walked into the garden at the Hill, the worse of the storm over, and Sam was glad. For now he could see to repairing the garden after it had been so flooded. As he did every morning, he made his way to the tool shed and slipped inside. A pair of gardening gloves lay resting on the wooden table, but he paid no heed to them. He had next to no feeling in his hands already, and he would be able to do nothing with those thick things on. He shivered, despite the warmth in the shed and lifted up the box of tools that lay resting on the shelf.  
  
The tools clattered to the ground with an almighty crash and Sam cursed out loud for his clumsiness, yet he knew in his heart that he was not a clumsy person. He brought his hands to his lips once more, and blew on them, 'til there were some feeling. He breathed shallowly, feeling a tightening in his chest.  
  
"So here you are, Sam Gamgee." A voice called from behind him. He span around and almost slipped on one of the tools lying on the floor, but Frodo was there in an instant, helping him up. "I thought I told you yester's eve to stay at home today."  
  
"The garden needs seeing to, sir." Sam replied, avoiding his gaze. He had been trying to avoid Frodo these few days, as to hide the way he looked. But there was no escaping now, and Frodo stood but a foot away from him.  
  
"Sam, look at you!" Frodo's eyes were wide in shock. The skin on Sam's skin and neck were blotchy and fearsome red in places. That contrasted vividly with the pale blue hue of Sam's lips and fingertips. His eyes were deep set and red, as if he hadn't been getting much sleep, which Sam hadn't. Every time Sam lay down to sleep he felt the tingling in his feet and arms, which felt a lot like pins and needles, so it deterred him from sleeping. He spent most of the night rubbing them to get the bloody flowing. He stood shivering, avoiding the gaze of his master as he checked Sam's frame. "Look what you've done to yourself! I can handle losing a garden, but not losing you."  
  
Sam looked up sharply, taken unawares. "What are you talking about Mr. Frodo? You ain't losing me."  
  
"Sam, you're sick. And it looks bad too."  
  
"It's just a cold sir."  
  
"Sam, do not insult my intelligence." Sam looked down, abashed. "I know what a cold is, and you look far worse than a runny nose."  
  
Sam exhaled deeply, feeling steadily more breathless. "Yes sir." His words were quiet and he inhaled again.  
  
"Come inside won't you? There's a bed lying for you, and I'm no bad nurse. Leave the garden as it may.." Frodo's words drifted away as the tightening in Sam's chest grew, and he felt light-headed. He stumbled, and the last thing he remembered was Frodo there to catch him. He couldn't keep his eyes open any longer and passed out. 


End file.
